


Without You

by thispieceofwork



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: A place to shoot these shots, Complete Enough, Episode Related, Episode: s04e03 Reunion, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Male Slash, Might be more shots, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, with just a hint of Dom/Sub vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofwork/pseuds/thispieceofwork
Summary: Despite the countless self-flagellating rundowns of all the reasons not to, John knew one thing for sure. As inconvenient as his developing feelings for Ronon were, they were real.And John didn't want to be a waystation.To John, Atlantis was home. Teyla, McKay, Zelenka, and Lorne were home. Golf off the east pier was home.Ronon was home.The thought stopped him short. His dog tags clanged gently against his shirt, a subtle weight that had long repressed any feelings that might weasel their way into his chest--wouldn't matter if someone asked. There’s long been nothing to tell.In the years since Ronon joined the team, John had tried not to want it, tried not to notice the Satedan in the ways the Air Force would not abide--not because he cared. Because he had to. This was his expedition, his command now. John told himself he'd made his choices long ago and Ronon didn't change that.Career over comfort. Team over partnership.But for God's sake. John was only human.
Relationships: Ronon Dex/John Sheppard
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm addicted to Shex and I make no apologies. Something about writing Ronan makes me really happy and it's a genuine challenge for me, as his character voice is not one I write frequently in other ships / fictions of mine. 
> 
> Also DADT was still in effect at this point I think? I wrote it like it was so congrats if I'm wrong.

* * *

John knew Teyla would check in with Ronon first. Feelings after a hard mission were always more her thing. Add in that good ol' "outsider bond" and surely, Ronon would be more likely to talk to the Athosian leader than his commanding officer. 

_Which is clearly all he sees me as_ , John adds bitterly as he rounds the corner, staying intentionally out of earshot of Ronon's open door. In true Sheppard form, John knows how to kick himself when he’s down. _Dad would be so proud._

Leaning in an alcove, watching for Teyla to turn the corner in retreat, John shakes his head back and forth, lightly clunking it against the artful architecture. This was _such_ a bad idea. They'd got the Big Guy back for now. Wasn't that enough? Couldn't he let that be enough?

But no. Even knowing Ronon planned to stay, John found himself unable to finish his mission report, unable to craft words that read like finality for what felt like a gaping wound. Reading back the little he had down only brought back the hurt, a pain that felt more raw than a friend leaving should.

Breaking free of the taunting blank page, he'd decided to indulge his jittering limbs on a stroll of the City. And if he happened to walk the route he and Ronon had run for years now, it was nothing more than muscle memory. A convenient detour. Something to pass the time.

That's really what this was about. Despite the countless self-flagellating rundowns of all the reasons not to, John knew one thing for sure. As inconvenient as his developing feelings for Ronon were, they were real. 

And John didn't want to be a waystation. 

To John, Atlantis was home. Teyla, McKay, Zelenka, and Lorne were home. Golf off the east pier was home.

 _Ronon_ was home.

The thought stopped him short. His dog tags clanged gently against his shirt, a subtle weight that had long repressed any feelings that might weasel their way into his chest--wouldn't matter if someone _asked_. There’s long been nothing to tell.

In the years since Ronon joined the team, John had tried not to want it, tried not to notice the Satedan in the ways the Air Force would not abide--not because he cared. Because he had to. This was _his_ expedition, his command now. John told himself he'd made his choices long ago and Ronon didn't change that. 

Career over comfort. Team over partnership.

 _But for God's sake._ John was only human. 

Running new-recruit Ronon through his paces quickly became training sessions, which naturally evolved into workouts, morning runs, meals in the mess, grappling and sparring. John tried to look at Ronon as a commander does a soldier. And it certainly didn't help that, based on the bits the Specialist let slip, frat regs were not the norm in the Satedan military. 

More than once, Sheppard caught that look in Ronon's warm eyes, felt the heat of interest as he helped John off the mat, the near-imperceptible raise of an eyebrow as John held on too long--upright and still unsteady--clasping forearms for balance. John could see it in the way Ronon gathered his dreads over his shoulders, how he’d smirk as he left the gym.

Because of course John was watching, was following every move of every muscle with eyes betraying want, betraying hunger. And of course, Ronon knew it. Was counting on it by now. The bastard.

Their dangerous dance never went further than that. Not yet, anyway.

Not like John could let it, even if he wanted to. Especially _because_ he wanted to.

So when Teyla had returned with tales of Satedan comrades and casual tattoos over tankards, it was enough to penetrate John's cloud of worry and "Weir-rescue" schemes. Teyla had marched into his office, waiting only for the door to shut before confessing, "I fear Ronon may choose to leave Atlantis."

The words landed like a gut punch, and plunged John into jealousy and shame.

First was jealousy--ripe and green and rippling over his skin--making him tense and hold his body taut. How dare he choose _them_ over the team? _Over me?_

And then, the shame--hot and thick and choking--unable to swallow that _of course_ he would. They're his people. His responsibility. _They can be his. Can claim him._

_Love him._

That word scared John more than a court marshall ever could.

That word worked its way into his feet the whole walk over and inevitably brought him here, eavesdropping and sensing through City to see if Teyla had finished with her peacekeeping. John hears the faint ding and slide of a door, notes the familiar shuffling of Teyla's disappearing gait, and breathes deep into the silence of the hall. He's trying to collect himself, unsure if he wants a way in or a way out, but certain that something is missing.

He needs a sign. Some solid ground. Without Elizabeth's anchoring presence, John has felt out to sea--even with Carter stepping in. If he had to do without Ronon too…

"Man up, Sheppard," he chastises under his breath as he pushes away from the wall, walking with purpose to Ronon's door. One way or another, he’s dealing with this. Tonight.

John meant to knock, but the door slides open like he'd thought it into action, the City sensing his nervous intent. So when Ronon turns at the sound, half expecting Teyla, he instead sees John, hand frozen en route to the now-hidden pocket door. 

Ronon breathes a laugh and darts his eyes away, focusing on unpacking his possessions. "Teyla just left. Can save the 'friendly chat' routine."

Taking this as cue to enter, John steps inside, door sliding closed behind him. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, defenses braced. "Yeah, well. I think we both know how great I am at...that stuff. Better that way."

"Sure."

Ronon sits on his bed, an eye on Sheppard, waiting for John to say what Ronon knows he's there to say. The conversation they've been dodging too long has caught up to them. It did the second Ronon chose to leave. 

John could make sarcastic-aggressive comments over lunch in the mess all he wanted--Ronon knew what lurked beneath the surface. Sure, Lt. Colonel Sheppard was angry, unwilling to let the Satedan Specialist leave his team. 

But John? John was jealous, plain and simple.

Ronon wondered what he'd have to do to get the dark-haired man to admit to that. It was clear to Ronon that their friendship could have taken that turn, could have become something much more Satedan and certainly more fun. Maybe even something more serious. 

But. 

All it took was a week observing the new-Lantean's military personnel to pick up on what was going unsaid. 

There were certain hours in certain showers where Marines looked twice over _both_ shoulders on exiting. There were key cards traded in unassigned lockers, opening rooms unmonitored by security feeds. Ronon had seen it before on the Run. He didn't have to be told the name for it here, for whatever rule kept John's hazel eyes locked on his and held their bodies apart, why he only touched Ronon when they were sparring, why John could never let himself return the bear hugs so common in Satedan greetings. 

John couldn't because he wanted to. Too badly. And something about his world wouldn't let him say otherwise.

But after three years, even knowing that it wasn't by choice was wearing thin. Running taught Ronon more about choice than he'd ever cared to know. 

If you're not dead, there's still a choice. Life means a chance. And somehow, they'd both managed to make it out of another impossible situation. To face the choice again. A chance for another decision. 

Ronon had cleared the bed by the time he took pity on John, frozen at the door frame, and tried to start him off with some common ground--a joke. "What now? Decide you want me gone after all?"

"What? No."

"Don't seem too happy I'm staying."

"That's ridiculous," John snips back, too quick to be anything but truth.

Ronon expects it. "You're mad at me. Mad I left."

"No, I'm not. And you didn't _go_ anywhere."

"But I was going to."

 _And there's the rub_ , John thinks. He's unsettled by how much that hurts, how it fuels an anger he can't quite name. "Yeah. Yeah, you were." 

John shifts his weight, turning angry eyes on a silent Ronon. "What's with that?"

"Say what you mean, Sheppard."

"How come you were gonna leave?"

"Sateda may be gone, but they were my people, my responsibility--"

"So that meant leaving the team? Leaving Atlantis? Just like that?"

"It wasn't _just_ anything," Ronon grits out, an old hurt rising in his tone. "After years of looking for something like a home, something that could be _mine_ ...and to find out they were still alive...yeah, I was gonna go. I never said I _wanted_ to." 

Earnest brown eyes meet hazel confusion, and Ronon wills him to listen through the words, to take the deeper meaning. "I thought you'd understand. About the sacrifices of command."

It's as close as Ronon can get to saying it all without being sure of the outcome. But it's enough. Something shifts in John's shuttered gaze, becomes something warm and rushed and panicked. He sees the recognition in Ronon, domineering even seated on the bed, and tests the waters with a small truth. "I...might know something about that."

Ronon watches as John shrugs through his personas, uncomfortable in Colonel-mode, unable to slink back into sarcastic-Sheppard, left only with stuttering-John, who never met a feeling he couldn't fumble. Unable to say what he wants, too scared to do what he does when words fail, John stammers, desperate eyes pleading to Ronon to _help me out here._

Ronon stands, eyes tracking John's every move, and stops directly in front of him. John leans away out of habit, arms crossed. 

Slowly, as not to startle, Ronon reaches an arm to the control at John's shoulder and waves the door locked. This close, John has to shut his eyes against the assault on his senses, the near-tangible scent of spice and grease and leather that is purely Ronon. 

Ronon’s got a way of taking up all the space in a room no matter the size. A person can’t _help_ but notice him. He draws all attention, all the air from John’s lungs, just by existing. To have such power turned on him in close quarters is, honestly, John thinks, _unfair_.

Ronon cocks his head and repeats himself, voice low and gravelly. "Say what you came to say."

"I just...I can't believe you were gonna leave like that." At Ronon's huff, John quietly amends, "Leave _me_ like that."

Ronon nods, satisfied with his honesty. "When it came down to it, I couldn't."

"From where I was standing, you could and you did."

Faster than any sparring session, John finds himself pinned against the empty wall, Ronon's forearm pressed hard across his collarbone. John has no choice but to meet Ronon's gaze, dark with anger, with promise, with an intensity John’s afraid to name. And John swallows hard _._

"You want a report, _Colonel?_ " Ronon sneers out his rank. "At the first sound of gunfire, I came running back." Ronon shifts his hips to press against John's, punctuating his point, not caring for once if Sheppard can feel what their proximity is doing to him. 

"Shot my way through four Wraith to find you. Killed two of _my squad_ to rescue you." Ronon leans closer still, frustration huffing in Sheppard's face as he forces himself to say it, to make this final confession. "Because keeping you safe...that's _my_ job now. Even if the rest stays secret."

"What _rest_?"

He’s giving him that look again--an intensity that no one should have to deny. For anything. 

"You know, John. I know you know." 

Brows furrowed in contemplation, Ronon traces the corner of John's mouth--and at his CO's eager gasp, leans in for a kiss.

And John's world flips upside down.

Ronon knows it's a risk, but it's a calculated one. He is firm but soft, brushing John's lips with his. An invitation. A choice. Perhaps a promise.

 _If_ he wants it.

And God help him, but John wants it. Badly.

It only takes a second for John to melt into Ronon's touch, for lips to part and tongues to explore as they drink deep of their kiss, both fearing the moment one of them comes to their senses. Ronon dares a bit further, slides a strong hand along John's neck and holds his head firmly in place, thumb skating the stubble on his cheek. 

Ronon feels John's sigh warm against his face, can't help his answering groan--and somehow, John's instinct is in the driver's seat for once, pressing his hip firmly against Ronon's growing erection. Ronon threads his fingers through John's black hair in encouragement, pulling a fistful to angle his head and break the kiss, exploring the expanse of alabaster throat now panting for him.

It doesn't take long for John's surprised moan to warp into guilty conscience. Ronon smiles against his neck, freeing John's shirt from the back of his BDUs as John begins to bargain. 

"Wait, this is...a bad idea…"

Ronon notes the stutter, soothes a playful nip with this tongue, careful not to mark. "It's a great idea."

"Fine, but it's _also_ a very _bad_ idea--"

"You want to stop?"

"Hell no."

Ronon smiles--that big, easy grin that makes everything seem so possible. "Then shut up, Sheppard."

And for once, John's considers what it might be like to follow orders. Because pleasantly surprised though Ronon may be, there's no mistaking the expectation in his voice, the decisive way he's commanding John with hands and lips and teeth. Ronon is a safe place to give up control, to not have to call the shots alone. 

Ronon is someone a warrior can trust.

John thinks that might be what he needs after all.

Ronon resumes their kiss as their hands grow bolder, tugging at shirts to reveal swatches of skin. John slides his hands around the waist of Ronon's leather pants, not yet ready to admit he is searching for laces, for fastenings, for occupation for his fingers. John cups him through the leather, firm enough to feel and yet not nearly enough. Ronon takes the hint and shucks his shirt, untucking the leather lacings of his pants so they dangle at his sides.

He steps to cross the brief distance between them, starts to pull at one of his ties, catches John's lips for a quick kiss. "We doing this?"

"Yeah. If you--yeah."

A devious smirk curls in the corner of his mouth as Ronon warns, "Brace yourself."

"What--"

John's not accustomed to being the smaller one, to an intimate moment where strength is part of the game. Upon reflection, he'll admit he should have seen it coming. But at the moment, John's brain is busy with thoughts like _Ronon_ and _yes_ and _more_ , and the maneuver takes him completely by surprise.

One second he's pressed against the wall, and the next he's flying--literally flying--into the mattress. In the time it takes John to reorient, he finds Ronon all-but stalking after him, pulling sharp at the ties of his pants, letting the leather pool around his feet, leaving him utterly bare. As he kicks free of the pants and ties back his dreads, John is struck dumb by the man towering before him, levering over him--all golden skin, muscle, and abundant, _proportional,_ flesh.

John can feel the heat of Ronon's cock even through the rough fabric of his BDUs, revels in the hitch in Ronon's throat as he thrusts against John's hip, hands scrabbling to rid John of his clothing too.

And he can't help it. John will fully admit to wanting this too badly to stop, but the sheer perfection of his partner stirs up sarcastic-Sheppard again. He pushes Ronon's hands away from his shirt, suddenly self-conscious. "Nuh-uh. You wanted me naked, you should've gone second."

Ronon's laugh is full, good-natured and teasing. "I'm not gonna apologize for being prettier than you."

" _Hey_ ," John's retort is sharp, but he's smiling too. For once, he's getting as good as he gives. It's new.

Ronon reaches for the waist of John's pants, slips the button and lowers the zip. "How many offworld women have to ask you to fuck before you'll admit you're attractive?" 

"That's not what I'm--"

Ronon shuts him up with a look. He smiles in that matter-of-fact way of his. "I'm gonna take your clothes off now."

John shrugs his gaze away, mostly joking. "I mean, if you want."

"Stop. Of course I want to see you." And John can hardly look at him, because if there's a Ronon that fucks him up worst, it's Earnest Ronon, who couldn't tell a lie if he tried.

John needs something to do to distract him from just how _good_ it feels to have Ronon's hands on him, to have him strip off his layers in an easy pull, leaving his lower half bare, erection pressed fast to his still-covered stomach. 

"Well, I suppose it's nothing you haven't seen," John jokes, but he can feel the shift as Ronon tosses his black tee, can feel how somehow, this means more now--that this is bigger than back rooms and shower stalls and biological urges.

Ronon sits back like he sees something special, something worth sticking around for. He doesn't hide what this is doing to him, how big any of this suddenly feels as he traces scars both known and unknown, watches the shudders and gooseflesh he leaves in his wake. John's not even sure Ronon knows he's said it when he whispers, "Haven’t seen you like this." 

There's sex, and then there's naked. 

In his military history of getting away with necessity, John's developed a thing about shirts, a final piece of armor proving there was nothing to see here, no truth-telling scars or visible tattoos to be recognized in reality’s fluorescent lighting.

But something about being fully naked with Ronon like this, _in his bed_...to meet the eyes of a friend who genuinely enjoys what he sees...it's terrifying. Exhilarating. Electrifying.

So John reasons it's not all his fault when he answers Ronon so honestly. 

It was probably meant as a joke--some sexy Satedan thing, no doubt. But when Ronon asks, "So what do you want," John says the only thing he knows for certain.

"You."

In answer, Ronon leans down for a kiss, covering John's body with his own, relishing their mutual sigh as they begin to slide together. "You got me."

And no more words are needed.

John knows this is the start, a beginning--and it _better_ be an Act 1. Because at this point, the build-up has been too much for too long and John knows he isn't going to last. He wants more than this moment can hold--wants Ronon over him, under him, holding him, fucking him. How has he not even _tasted_ him yet?

A switch flips in John's head, reminds him of the capabilities of the man above him and flips their positions roughly, taking advantage of surprise to pin Ronon's arms back, to cover his Specialist tattoo with his mouth the way he’s always, _always_ wanted to.

Fears be damned. John wants Ronon, and he wants him _now._

He kisses down Ronon's chest, licks down the curve of his hip, goaded on by Ronon's sighs of encouragement and a not-so subtle hand on his head, pushing him down to where he’s needed most. Ronon grits his teeth against the _please, John_ tearing from his throat.

John is all instinct as he lowers himself, takes Ronon's cock completely in his mouth, forcing strong hips back to the mattress as he groans around the length, opens his throat for as long as he can before pulling back, setting a rhythm with hands and tongue.

Ronon’s not sure what he expected, but after John’s earlier attack of nerves, it certainly wasn’t _this._ His breathing is harsh and panting. "You tease. You know exactly what you're doing."

"So far,” John smiles back, and he looks somehow younger, freer. Happier than Ronon’s seen him since...ever.

John sets himself to his task and bobs his head, grabs hard enough to scrape Ronon’s thighs as he starts with suction, swallowing and contracting around him, and if there were a prize for _hottest sound in the universe_ , John thinks it would have to be Ronon’s shout of surprise as he feels the pleasure take him. “John, I’m--”

“Do it.”

And he takes it all--wants it all--wants everything this man could ever give him. John swallows as Ronon’s back arches, his eyes slammed shut, face the very picture of _finally yes_ , before he shudders back to the mattress. John shifts his focus from spasming skin, kisses around his hip, down a thigh, sliding hands against sheets to flanks he has yet to fully examine, taking a moment to lick his lips in teasing--

It’s obvious when Ronon has recovered. It’s the moment John finds himself flat on his back again, staring up at the ceiling with his wrists pinned _in one hand_. “Jesus, Ronon. Kill you to ask?”

“Too slow,” is all the response John gets before he’s entirely willing to agree. Because if he’d known how amazing it would feel to have Ronon taking his cock all the way down his throat, how it would look to watch this pinnacle of strength suck him to a whimpering mass--well, they would’ve done this a hell of a lot sooner. That’s for _damn_ sure. 

John’s not certain when his hand tangled in Ronon’s dreads, but he’s cradling Ronon’s head like the treasure he is, mumbling incoherent praise that sounds an awful lot like _yes_ and _fuck_ and _are you kidding me._ Ronon hums his pleasure at bringing John close, so close to where he wants to be, then pulls off for a second in playful retaliation. 

“Ronon, _please--”_ is John’s desperate plea.

“Come on, then. Give it up.”

Ronon works John with one hand, reaching his other up, fingers hovering at John’s lips, asking without asking. Ronon’s not sure how they do things on Earth, but this signal would be clear to any Satedan. 

John sucks two fingers into his mouth and Ronon figures it must translate well enough. He brings his wet fingers to press over John’s hole, teasing his entrance with what they both know he’ll return for. What Ronon wants is better not rushed, better on a night less hurried, less new. 

Besides. Mattress-tossing notwithstanding, there's something to be said for taking it slow.

Ronon swallows him whole and plays John like an instrument, watching the tremors to tell where and how he wants to be touched, following the litany of encouragement and profanity falling from John’s lips. John whimpers and shivers when he reaches his peak, shaking as the cresting pleasure rips through him and down Ronon’s throat, arching his hips up and away, collapsing as the rush leaves him spent. 

As John returns to something resembling their plane of existence, Ronon makes a self-satisfied trek back up his lover’s body, kissing over John’s heart before lying his head against it, the steady drum that’s marshalled his actions for so long now. How strange, how wonderful, to finally experience it the way he’d always dreamed--together, in his bed. His percussive lullaby.

In the silence, looking at nowhere in particular, John says what he came to say.

“Pretty sure I’m falling for you, Ronon.”

John doesn’t care if the idiom translates. He’ll explain later if need be.

Ronon looks up and smiles, captures his lips in a kiss that’s starting to feel familiar. “I got that too.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> End notes:
> 
> "And there's the rub"-- you cannot tell me John Sheppard doesn't quote Shakespeare ironically to himself, it's too on brand for his "I'm MENSA-smart but approachable-ish" characterization.
> 
> Hope you enjoy my take on making season 4 as gay as possible. May add drabbles to this as I keep rewatching, might even layer into OT3 category with Teyla, but who knows. I am notoriously inconsistent in updates and you should consider yourself warned in advance. <3 <3 <3


End file.
